


Sonata

by NotPersephone



Series: The Alienist & The Count [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Doctor/Patient, F/M, bedannibalprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: The approaching of the holiday is announced by the arriving postcards, bearing well wishes. The people seem to be more sanguine. There have been no new Reaper attacks; some presume him captured, some think him dead. At times Bedelia wonders what has become of the other killer, but she has never expected to find out.





	Sonata

White flakes are falling from the grey clouds, swooshing through the air, thick and slow, brushing softy against the carriage window.

Bedelia Du Maurier enjoys this time of the year, the snow turning the city into a white panorama, making it appear softer and calmer than it is. She does not, however, enjoy ruining her dresses on the mucky ground. With that though in mind, she orders the coachman to stop as close to the door of her destination as possible. Red façade and pink sign of the tea room welcomes her as she gets off the carriage. It is a not a place she would normally visit, or a ritual she finds enjoyable, but as the year draws to an end, she cannot decline the request any longer. Lady Hadleigh, an old friend of her family, had been inviting Bedelia to join her for cream tea for over a month. Bedelia agreed on a condition that they meet in a public tea room; it felt like a more neutral ground. If she was to be subjected to the usual questioning, she would rather not give the other party the advantage of their own home. Helena was not related to Bedelia, but she was her mother’s ears and eyes, passing judgment and unwanted advice.

Bedelia enters the tea room, removing her gloves and coat, sending flakes spiralling down to the polished floor, then straightens her dress, an unnecessary but calming gesture. She wears deep green today; it matches the evergreen decorating the fireplace, a pure coincidence as Bedelia does not favour the festive season. She takes in the new surroundings; it is warm and cosy, numerous small tables are all occupied, the place is alive with chatter and clinking of china. Lady Hadleigh already awaits her, seated by the window, a platter of scones, clotted cream and strawberry preserves laid out in front of her.

“How wonderful to see you, Bedelia,” she stands up, welcoming her with an exaggerated embrace; her grey hair is adorned with feather headdress, matching the trimmings on her purple dress with a rather exposed neckline.

“Good afternoon, Lady Hadleigh,” Bedelia extricates herself from her tight grip and pulls out the opposite chair.

“They have the Devon clotted cream here,” Helena exclaims excitingly, “You simply must try it.”

“Thank you, but just the tea for me,” Bedelia sits down and the waiter brings over the tea at once, filling her teacup and placing the pot next to it.

“I have not seen you in months,” the woman appraises her appearance and takes mental notes, “You look _wonderful_.” Bedelia doubts she means it.

“I have been busy,” she responds simply and Helena gives her a hesitant look. Whatever Bedelia has been doing, does not qualify as occupation in her book.

“Well, I am delighted to have met with you before the holidays,” the woman finishes the last bite of her scone and empties her cup.

Bedelia smiles politely, savouring her own tea.

“Will you be attending Lord and Lady Alton’s New Year Day’s dinner?” she asks briskly and Bedelia is not surprised at all that she knows about her invitation, which is yet another proof of her mother’s reach stretching all the way across the Channel.

“I have not decided yet,” Bedelia responds vaguely, hoping this will end the subject. The dinner is a generous name for what essentially is a matchmaking evening, meant for unmarried young ladies and eligible gentlemen, something Bedelia feels too old for, not that she had ever enjoyed it in her youth. Still, her mother does not give up hope for her daughter to become a “proper” woman, hence the yearly invitation.

“I have heard some _exciting_ guests are to be expected,” Helena presses on, not discouraged by Bedelia’s stern tone. Her rings clink loudly against her knife as she spreads preserve on another scone.

“Oh really?” Bedelia takes a sip of her tea, before slowly placing the teacup back on the saucer. The pink flowery pattern of the china is somehow too cheerful for her taste. At least the tea is excellent; Darjeeling is her favourite.

“Yes,” Lady Hadleigh does not need much incentive to continue, “Count Lecter is expected to make an appearance.” The woman bites into her scone, beaming at Bedelia, but she focuses her attention on refilling her teacup, not letting her awaken attentiveness show.

“I heard he is attending your _practice_ ,” the woman cannot hide her interest or her condescension of Bedelia’s work.

She tries to ignore both, adding milk to her tea and stirring it leisurely.

“Is he as interesting as they say?” Helena persist with her enquiry when she remains silence. Bedelia does not know how she obtained that information in the first place; she is not in a habit of talking about her work with others, particularly not with her family.

“I do not discuss my patients, Lady Hadleigh. It is confidential,” she states at last; she would never consider doing it anyway, especially not about _that_ patient.

“Still, I hope you will attend the dinner,” Lady Hadleigh must always have the last word.

They finish their tea in silence.

Before returning home, Bedelia makes a stop at a dressmaker and orders a new dress. She is ensured that it will be ready before the New Year. It has nothing to do with the dinner, she tells herself, it is traditional to wear new clothing on a first day of the year after all.

 

The sessions with Count Lecter remain the most interesting part of her week. The man lingers on her mind more than she wishes to admit. Anticipation rises within her each time the hour of his arrival approaches. This is natural, she convinces herself, he is the most intriguing patient she has ever had.

He speaks more openly now, being at ease with her, more so than she had expected. But it does not mean she uncovered all of him. His mind is an endless puzzle to her; the more she finds out, the more remains hidden. She is unsure if the sessions are of any benefit to him, yet he was quick to disperse her doubts when she voiced them out loud.

At times she thinks, he is merely looking for a friend, someone who can appreciate the man behind the title, someone who can _see_ him. But she cannot be his friend, she is his doctor.

Bedelia had proposed they postponed their sessions for the winter season; no doubt a man like him had numerous social engagements to attend to. He dismissed the suggestion at once, visibly bothered by the possibility of not seeing her for more than a week.

“Unless you are travelling somewhere, Doctor…” he asked tentatively, the worry now mingled with curiosity.

“No, I am not,” she responded truthfully. His stare now changed to one of concern.

“I will be attending a Christmas dinner at my cousin’s house,” she added, noticing his stare. She did not want to answer any further questions; the notion of the dinner was unpleasant enough for her without her patient’s sudden interest in her personal life.

“I hope you’ll have a wonderful time,” Hannibal said earnestly with a look now indicating that he wished he could ensure she did.

 

She does not think Hannibal Lecter quite belongs here, no matter how exciting of a metropolis London is, wondering if he belongs anywhere at all. She often wonders the same about herself.

“Why stay here?” she asks him one day after their session. Her gaze is focused on the peaceful winter landscape outside the window, her hand around a glass of wine.

In an attempt to prolong one of their meetings when the conversation was too engaging to end prematurely, she had offered him a glass of wine. Hannibal responded to the idea with unexpected enthusiasm. It has become a habit then. A pleasurable if rather unprofessional one; Bedelia cannot bring herself to break it.

“What do you mean, Doctor?” his voice sounds behind her, his own eyes turned to her book collection, but she could feel him covertly watching her.

“You can go anywhere you like, nothing stops you,” there’s a trace of melancholy in her tone; she is envious of him in a way, she wishes she could be adventurous herself, but she does not believe it’s in her nature.

“There is no point of wandering if one does not know what one seeks. All the places feel the same. I have tried,” he turns to the window as well, but keeps his distance.

“And do you know what you want now?” she enquires further, trying to distinguish his image mirrored in the window.

“I am beginning to. Thanks to you, Doctor,” he smiles and tilts his head in appreciation. It makes her want to smile too, but that seems inappropriate.

“Do you think you can find it here in London?” she asks instead.

Silence follows and she is about to turn when his voice sounds right behind her. She did not hear him approaching; his steps are surprisingly noiseless.

“I hope so,” he almost whispers in her ear, standing so close to her. She can see him clearly now, reflected in the glass, dark maroon eyes staring at her without concealment. It should make her uneasy, such a direct and shameless gaze, but it doesn’t; it warms her in an unexpected way.

He makes her wonder what it would be like to be free, unbound by social conventions. A silly fantasy, she brushes the notion away and finishes her wine. They both remain standing by the window with mere inches between and neither of them willing to move away first.

 

The approaching of the holiday is announced by the arriving postcards, bearing well wishes. The people seem to be more sanguine. There have been no new Reaper attacks; some presume him captured, some think him dead. At times Bedelia wonders what has become of the _other_ killer, but she has never expected to find out.

 

It is two days before Christmas, when Bedelia wakes up abruptly, filled with sudden fear. She looks out the window, but sees nothing but the snow falling slowly, white patterns imprinted against the black of the night. It must have been a bad dream, she tells herself, but a loud bang coming from downstairs alerts her anew.

Getting up slowly, she puts on her gown, wrapping it tightly around her. She looks at her bedside candle, but decides not to light it; she moves silently, opening her bedroom door with care and listening intently. No further sound disrupts the stillness of the night.

Taking gradual steps, she walks down the corridor until she reaches the top of the stairs. She pauses, still no sound; she descends carefully, aware of each of her steps, wishing she remembered which of the stairs creaked. Her hand barely touches the handrail, afraid it would creak as well.

Completely stillness fills the hallway, not even a sound of wind disrupts the quietness. It was just a dream after all, Bedelia chastises herself before turning to head back upstairs. But in that moment, the clouds outside part, and the light of the moon envelops her office. She stops at once, looking through the open door, noticing a shadow of someone sitting in the chair. Her patient’s usual spot. She blinks; it must be a trick of the light, Count Lecter has been on her mind _a lot_ , how silly of her. But then the shadow moves and Bedelia manages to cover her mouth, suppressing a loud gasp. Before she can decide what to do next, the shadow speaks.

“Doctor Du Maurier?” the voice sounds weary, but nonetheless she recognises it at once.

“Hannibal?” she pulls her robe more firmly around her, suddenly aware of her state of dishabille. A foolish concern to have at present, but surprise and disbelief render her mind unable to reason.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” her patient continues in the same tired tone, so unlike him.

Finally, curiosity takes over, burning brighter in her mind than the confusion, and she moves, slowly, entering her office and approaching the unexpected visitor.

“How did you-” she begins to ask, but as her eyes get accustomed to the dark, she sees his clothes tattered and dirty, “Are you hurt?” she asks instead, suddenly vigilant, her sharp doctor’s mind assessing his state.

He nods in agreement, but does not speak further, either out of pain or embarrassment. Bedelia now sees the dark patches covering his shirt. A shiver passes down her spine.

“Is that your blood, Hannibal?” she asks, her tone careful.

“Only some of it,” he responds at last, meeting her eyes at last.

His eyes are unlike she had seen them before; warm maroon turned dark, glistening menacingly, like a predator unexpectedly cornered. She should be scared, but she holds her ground and watches, amazed, as his gaze lingering on her turns to molten amber again.

“Allow me to examine it,” she offers, holding his stare, although all common sense advises otherwise. The same, unexpected voice in her mind responsible for this irrational suggestion tells her that they are more exposed here, on the ground floor.

“Can you walk?” her hand gently touches his shoulder and he nods again, before lifting himself up, not without difficulty. Yet he says nothing as she leads him to the stairwell. They stop and she wraps her arm around his waist, helping him up the stairs. This is the closest they have ever been to each other, the most inappropriate time for such realization, but Bedelia cannot help it. She senses the heat radiating from his body; it must be a fever, but it does not feel like one. It feels different, _pleasant._

They reach the top of the stairs and she guides him to one of the guest bedrooms. He sits on a bed and sighs in relief, the short walk fatigued him further.

“Remove your clothes. I will get water and gauze,” she orders and leaves the room without waiting for his answer.

She heads to her own bedroom; she left her bed no longer than five minutes ago, but it feels like hours had passed. Bedelia collects the water basin and pitcher, one that was luckily refilled by her maid before the night. She does not allow herself to think; if she did, she would no doubt see the insanity and danger of the present situation.

Her medical kit is in her bedside locker; she might not be practising general medicine, but she does not let her knowledge rust. Her hands full, she returns to the other room, finding her patient half naked, as she instructed.

She places the basin and kit on the floor next to him, before lighting a candle. Hannibal flinches at the sudden light, but says nothing. Slowly and with care, she examines him, fingers tracing his skin, cautious not to hurt him further.

The source of his bleeding is a shoulder wound; it is not deep and he seemed to have lost most blood due to exhaustion, probably on his journey here.

“I am afraid I do not have any antiseptics, alcohol will have to suffice,” she says, then leaves again, only to return shortly with a bottle of gin. She takes a gauze out of her bag and soaks it with the liquid. Hannibal nods and she covers the wound; he winces, but does not stop her. She cleans it the best she can; it must hurt, but Hannibal does not utter a word.

When the wound is sterilized, she feels calmer; she pours the water into the basin and wets a piece of cloth, before bringing it to his chest. She tries not to linger on his taut muscles and wiry hair, shifting her gaze awkwardly. She focuses on cleaning the blood, precise sweeps of her hand on his skin, perhaps slower than necessary. He sits quietly, surrendering to her care with surprising obedience. His eyes linger on her as she works, but not on her face this time, but on her unbound hair, blonde locks falling softly over her shoulders. She catches his stare and he averts his eyes as if ashamed.

“You should get some rest,” she concludes as she finishes wrapping bandages around his shoulder, “I do not have any clean shirts for you, I am sorry.” Men visitors do not frequent her house.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he speaks at last, peculiar indebtedness pouring out of his voice. She does not know what he expected coming here, perhaps not that.

She watches him lie on the bed, before she takes back her bag and basin and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Sleep does not come to her; her mind is burning. She tussles with numerous thoughts sweeping through her brain, as she turns from side to side, unable to make herself comfortable. It is almost dawn when she finally falls into an uneasy slumber. Strange dreams invade her peace; instead of her, it is Hannibal washing the blood of her body, his touch tender and gentle, before gathering her firmly in his arms.

Bedelia wakes up suddenly, still feeling the warmth of his imaginary embrace. It is dark outside, but the clock on her mantle announces seven in the morning. She tries to shake off the remnants of her dream. As her mind clears, the events of last night come pouring in, alerting her at once. Her first thought is to check on her unexpected visitor, but she won’t allow herself to be seen in the nightwear again. She puts on the dress with a high neck, buttoning it up with care, then arranges her hair up, a bit tighter than usual.

Only when she is finally pleased with her appearance, she leaves her bedroom and proceeds to knock on the other door. There is no answer. She knocks again, before slowly turning the knob and opening it slightly. The room is empty, the bed made as if no one had stayed there.

Confounded, Bedelia makes her way downstairs and finds her patient seating in her office, in the same spot she found him last night. Without a word, she walks pass him and takes her habitual seat behind the desk, opposite him.

Hannibal sits up straight, his eyes alert and his face a mask of composure as usual; only his dirty clothes indicate that something had come to pass.

They stare at each silently for a moment, before her patient speaks first.

“I am sorry to have imposed on you, Doctor,” his matter-of-factly tone suggests an unannounced social visit, not an emergency medical attention, but she says nothing.

“You were the only one I could think of, the only person I could turn to,” he continues, his voice unexpectedly heartful.

“Are you feeling better?” she ignores his comment, unsure how to respond.

“Yes, thank you. Your care was exceptional,” he smiles at her and she is lost for words once more.

Silence falls, the incident hanging between them like a heavy curtain seeking to be lifted.

“Are you not going to ask me what happened?” Hannibal voices her thoughts at last.

“Will you tell me the truth?” she retorts, trying to curb her fiery curiosity.

“Yes,” his eyes remain set on her, wide and brilliant, encouraging her to see the truth in them, to see _him_.

“What happened to the other man last night?” Bedelia gets straight to the point, there is no need for pretence.

“He is dead,” he responds at once.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” his calm tone does not change in a slightest.

“Was it in self-defence?” to her relieve, her voice remains collected as well.

“No.”

“Was he the first person you had killed?”

“No.”

Bedelia stares at him intensely; she should be surprised, but she isn’t. She would lie if she said the signs weren’t there. His curious comments about the Reaper case, the way his eyes appeared to turn crimson at times. Deep inside she knew something was amiss all along.

She should be scared, but she isn’t.

“Will you call the police?” it is Hannibal’s turn to question her, but it feels like an unnecessary trial of sorts. If she’d had the intention to alert them, she would have done it already. She might not be frightened for some inexplicable reason, but that does not mean she is safe.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks, still amazed by the coolness of her tone.

“I would never hurt you, Doctor” his voice trails off as if the notion was too preposterous to even waste words on, “I feel protective of you.” Another fervent gaze seals the last statement.

A killer that ensures he will keep her safe. Bedelia records the comment in her mind; there are too many things she needs to consider.

“I think you better be going, Hannibal. Should I send for a carriage?” she says for now.

“No, I can walk from here. Thank you.”

The mundane nature of this exchange seems absurd under the circumstances, but it feels reassuring to Bedelia.

Hannibal stands up and she follows him to the front door. He reaches for the knob, but then turns; she can see hesitation in his eyes.

“Will I see you after the New Year?” he asks with caution, his eyes suddenly shy.

Bedelia is stunned that his main concern is still their sessions.

“Yes,” is the only thing she manages to utter.

Hannibal relaxes visibly. “Until our next session then, Doctor,” he bids her goodbye and leaves as though nothing out of the ordinary took place.

Bedelia watches the door close behind him, rooted to one spot; her mind more vigilant than ever before, one thought swooping after another, all trying to arrange themselves in order and come to a conclusion.

She should not willingly invite him into her home, but she could not pass on such an opportunity. To study a mind of a killer out in the open; it had never been done before. Murderers are trialled and hang, no one is interested in their reasoning. But Bedelia is; she can feel herself elated with the possibilities, all the knowledge she could gather.

This is nothing more than research, she concludes as she falls asleep that night, with more ease than expected. Yet her dreams are infused with the feel of his skin under her fingers.

 

Christmas comes and goes; Bedelia keeps her dinner engagement, even if she is not fond of the tradition; the evening is not as tiresome as usual, mostly due to the fact that her mind is focused elsewhere.

Her new dress is delivered shortly afterwards. She has almost forgot she ordered it; it feels like a relic of another time now. Perhaps it is not wise to attend, considering who else might be there; she does not care what her mother would think if she didn’t. The dress is put away in the wardrobe, waiting patiently for Bedelia’s decision.

On New Year’s Eve, she watches as her maid carefully cleans out the ashes from all the fireplaces.

“It is to sweep away all the past year’s ills, ma’am,” the woman explains, noticing her stare, “And a clean start to the new year.”

As the bells announce the stroke of midnight and the arrival of another year, Bedelia looks out the window at the empty streets, still covered by a white shroud of snow. A clean slate indeed. She is suddenly filled with anticipation. She decides to attend the party.

 

Her dress is light blue silk, matching the colour of her eyes, skirt flowing softly around her like clear water. She pinned her hair up, her curls adorned by a silver comb; a rather bold accessory for her standards, but she feels it suits her.

Upon arrival, she gets off the carriage and walks slowly to the door, enjoying the chill of the air and quiet of the evening, clearing her mind, before she faces the chatter of the party. A footman escorts her to the dining room. High ceilings are sparkling with overbearing chandeliers, the room is filled with gabble of voices and clicking of glasses. Bedelia’s eyes survey the surroundings, seeing fresh faces of young women giggling excitedly and familiar faces of gentlemen, nodding politely. The purpose of the evening is already on the way.

“Bedelia,” Elizabeth, the lady of the house welcomes her with practised if insincere warmth. She is wearing an ostentatious shade of pink, topped by a pink quartz necklace. It reminds Bedelia of an unappetizing candy. “Happy New Year. We are so happy to see _again_ ,” she says that every year and Bedelia knows she would rather not see her again. It is a matchmaking evening after all and Bedelia is missing the point entirely.

“Happy New Year,” Bedelia responds politely, while her eyes continue to look closely at the guests, searching for the one face she should not be searching for.

She spots him at once; his sharp and elegant features like a shining beacon amidst the plump and plain Englishmen. Hannibal Lecter turns as if sensing her stare; Bedelia averts her eyes at once.

“Bedelia, have you met Mr Lowell?” Elizabeth wastes no time for further pleasantries, calling over a tall, blonde man with a matching moustache cradling a tumbler of Scotch.

“Mr Lowell,” she makes the introductions, “This is Miss Du Maurier.”

“ _Doctor_ Du Maurier,” a firm voice sounds behind them and all three of them turn to come face to face with Hannibal Lecter.

“Oh Count, I did not see you there,” Elizabeth chirps, ecstatic to have a chance to speak to him again, “Yes, of course, _Doctor_.” Bedelia can tell the word tasted bitter on her tongue; she presses her lips together, hiding a smile.

“I did not realize you knew each other,” Elizabeth continues, a genuine surprise on her face.

“I have been attending Doctor Du Maurier’s practice. She is quite brilliant,” he states at once and Elizabeth tilts her head as if in disbelief while Bedelia feels sudden heat rising to her cheeks.

Mr Lowell vanished during the exchange, no doubt discouraged by Hannibal’s attention and already whisked away to meet a more suitable woman. Bedelia feels somehow grateful.

“Would you like a drink, Doctor?” Hannibal now addresses Bedelia directly, ignoring Elizabeth’s needy stares.

“Yes, thank you,” she accepts gladly, anything to escape the other woman’s forced attention.

Hannibal picks up two glasses of gin from the passing waiter’s tray and offers one to Bedelia.

Elizabeth has no other choice, but to move along, although Bedelia can see her obvious discontent in possibly losing the best match of the evening.

“I did not know you will be attending the dinner, Doctor,” Hannibal says when they are alone, his manners as flawless as ever.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to,” she replies politely, but her tone remains reserved.

“Well, I am glad you did,” he pauses, “You look beautiful.” She can see his eyes sparkling as he carefully appraises her outfit, all the way to the comb in her hair.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she feels the heat rising anew and takes a large sip to cover it up.

They savour their drinks in silence. Bedelia is searching for the right words; If they were to mention their previous _encounter_ , they could not do it here. She is not sure if it were wise to do it all.

Just as her mind decides on the best conversation starter, Lady Levingston swoops in, surrounded by grey frills and attempts to capture Hannibal’s attention, not ready to claim forfeit on the Count. Bedelia can see Hannibal is reluctant to leave her, but has little choice as the woman’s decisive grip pulls him away.

Bedelia is left on her own, her mind once again full of conflicting notions.

As she manoeuvres her way through the guests, making polite conversation but never lingering too long to excite actual interest, she is aware of Hannibal’s stare, following her from the other side of the room.

Once she talked to enough people, not to appear rude, she slips out of the room and onto the terrace overlooking the gardens. All the bare trees are hidden under a cloak of white, like a collection of twisted sculptures. Bedelia inhales and exhales deeply; her breath materializing as a cloud before her. She does not mind the cold. The warmth of the party is suffocating and the clatter begins to make her feel dizzy.

Suddenly, she senses someone standing behind her. Only one man can move that soundlessly.

“They will be missing you at the party, Hannibal,” she speaks without turning.

“It is rather tedious, I am sure you agree,” her patient comments.

Bedelia turns, surprised by his sudden honesty, and meets his assessing stare, eyes sharper than before.

He looks as if he is expecting her to flinch, but she doesn’t. She can see his gaze softens again and he smiles. She holds his stare for a moment longer before turning her attention back to the garden.

The snow begins to fall afresh, flakes descending unhurriedly and settling themselves comfortably on the existing blanket.

Hannibal and Bedelia remain standing next to each other, once again separated by mere inches, and unwilling to move away.

It is a new beginning. For them both, but Bedelia does not yet know what it means.

**Author's Note:**

> Cream tea is afternoon tea with scones. Antiseptics were only slowly introduced in Victorian era and used in hospitals; Bedelia wouldn't have access to such, but as a doctor who keeps her mind sharp, I am sure she was aware of all new discoveries. On New Year's day, wealthy families would hold an "open house" and invite eligible bachelors to meet their unmarried daughters. It was sort of Victorian "speed dating", since the men would visit numerous houses in one night.
> 
> I really enjoy writing this AU and it was even more fun to explore the moment when Bedelia realises who he really is.  
> As always feedback is love, if you want to keep me writing.


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